Prologue
I was still adjusting to my new life when it was time to draft book four. It was notably quieter in our—no,my—apartment. I never realized how much I relied on the soundtrack of daily living to feel like a whole person until the music was gone. No more humming by the stove or whistling while folding laundry—and certainly no more singing in the shower. The absence of melody was more than just irony. It was my new reality. I grieved the refrain of our life together as if I’d lost a tangible sense like my sight or my taste buds.
I was on a deadline, but I had nothing. All I knew about the fourth book was that it had to be a romance. I’d pitched an idea—a hospital romance reminiscent ofGrey’s Anatomythat my editor seemed to think would work.
If only I could write it.
See, in theory it sounded great. A down-on-her-luck cardiologist falls in love with an ailing patient, but just as she cures him of his as-yet-unnamed disease, his twin sister dies suddenly from the same affliction and sends him into a tailspin.All the Broken Hearts,it would be called.
Problem was, I’m not a doctor. Also, I have no history of heart issues and have never evenseena cardiologist.
My mom did, though, about three years ago, which was how I gotthe idea. The cardiologist, Dr. Hartman (because of course that was his name), told her she had congestive heart failure, stage C. That was after her first heart attack, when she was sixty-three. He told her to quit smoking immediately, put her on beta-blockers and a whole cocktail of other meds, and said to make a conscious effort to lower her stress.
So, what did she do? She booked us a trip to Aruba for Christmas break. Just me and her. Eight days, seven nights at the Renaissance in Oranjestad.
Which is where I met Beckett.
Who ruined me.
Chapter 1
Names are a curious thing. Fawning young parents deliberate for months—sometimes years—on the perfect moniker for their newborn cherub. After all, what is a name if not a prayer, a petition to the universe of all the hopes and dreams a parent can hold for this new, precious life? One word, a mere collection of syllables, creating a meditation for an entire existence.
Her name was Harmony. She shared the information flippantly, as if it were simply a matter of fact, not a painstakingly chosen word to embody her essence. But her gold-streaked hair gleaming in the endless sunlight spoke a deeper truth. Indeed, from the start I knew she was more than solely the euphony of musical notes pleasing to the ear.
“Interesting name,” I commented, hoping to unearth the narrative of its conception.
“Thank you,” she replied, twisting a loose curl through her fingers. “My mom named me after her first single.”
“Sorry?” I asked, unsure if I understood what she’d said. “Single? Is your mom a musician?”
“Songwriter,” Harmony clarified. “Used to be, anyway.”
“Wow. That’s not something you hear every day.”
She nodded, looking down the beach. The azure ocean sparkled as tiny, clear waves lapped at our bare feet. “Yeah. Have you ever heard of a song called Harmony of a Heartbreak?
“By Harper Smith? The country song?”
Joy emanated from her hazel eyes down her cheeks, which rounded as her lips stretched into a smile. I wasn’t able to recall a time when a facial expression caused my body to clench like that, but I could feel it everywhere: my fingertips became cold, my hands grew clammy, my leg muscles tightened. It was as if I could feel her smile deep in my bones. “Uh huh,” she replied.
“Sure. That song was huge when I was a kid.”
I searched the depths of my memory to summon the lyrics, but in the moment, I found myself overwhelmed by the subtle scent of oleander carried on the breeze from her hair to my sensory neurons. She smelled like the flower of paradise; it rendered me incapable of recall. I only knew that the connotation invoked an aura of despondent longing.
“She wrote it when she was pregnant with me,” Harmony beamed.
“Isn’t that a sad song, though?” I ruminated.
“Kind of, but not if you know the story.”
I raised my eyebrows, silently encouraging her to elaborate.
“My dad and mom were longtime friends. He played the piano and would accompany her sometimes—depending on the song. Well, I obviously don’t know all the details, but apparently one night, one thing led to another and she endedup pregnant with me. He wasn’t ready to be a dad, and it ended their friendship and musical partnership.”
“I’m failing to see the happy side of this,” I admitted.
“Him leaving inspired my mom to write “Harmony of a Heartbreak,” and it was her first major hit.”
